It Should Have Been A Simple Gig
by csamson
Summary: Can Martin protect an endangered woman without jeopardizing his undercover assignment?


It Should Have Been a Simple Gig

"She's a hooker, Fitzgerald," Martin reminded himself.

Her glossy chestnut hair was professionally styled. The low cut gold lamé dress had been tailored to her curves. She was a sleek expensive call girl, an escort, not a street whore. But still, she got paid to have sex.

Could he risk blowing his undercover assignment to try to protect her? A missing person's life might depend on these thugs believing Martin was actually Bob Braydon for at least another day.

Georgie Ferguson trailed a grimy finger down the side of her face. The brunette's dangling gold earrings trembled. Harry's chunky hands clamped tighter on her wrists.

"No, please don't." She looked at Martin where he sat impassively in the recliner. He averted his eyes momentarily.

'_It should be a simple gig_,' Jack had said. _'Just act like them and don't do anything to make them suspicious for two or three days. You should be able to handle that.'_

"Hey, lady, lighten up," Harry said. "You're not gonna get paid, but it's stuff you do all the time."

Legal definitions aside, Martin wondered, was what was about to happen really rape or just theft of services?

Harry leaned in to kiss her. She turned her head as far as she could. Her whole body trembled now.

Even a prostitute could be frightened. Maybe especially a prostitute. A lot of bad things happened to them.

The two hoods wouldn't expect Bob Braydon to have any moral objection to what they were doing. Did they know that the real Braydon's extensive criminal record included charges of sexual assaults on teenage girls?

The dryness of Martin's mouth was as irritating as the lump of tension in his stomach.

Could he muster enough authority over the younger men to get them to just turn her loose? Probably not. And if he did pull it off, well, she wouldn't be likely to press charges. But a lot of hookers earned some extra credit by passing on tips to selected cops. One officer investigating a report of dangerous men could blow the whole plan up.

Georgie shoved his fingers inside the top of her dress. The woman , Martin decided. Definitely rape. Oh, hell.

He stood up. "Hey, hold on . . ."

* * * *

Two days earlier, Jack had been leaning with a hip propped on the edge of the conference table. He opened his phone. "Malone . . . Crap. Arrested for what? . . . No, I don't know." He had the attention of the entire Missing Persons team. "See if you can get them to keep him away from a phone or a lawyer, till I figure out what we need to do. What's the number at the station?"

He snapped the phone shut with more than necessary force. "That was one of the Virginia agents tailing Bob Braydon. Braydon was just in a fender bender. He wasn't injured, but two traffic cops were right there. They arrested him on that outstanding fugitive warrant."

For a moment, nothing could be heard but a couple of deep sighs. Martin spoke first. "Maybe we don't have to do anything. Let it play out. Braydon will call Dempsey, or call a lawyer who will call Dempsey. Braydon's not going anywhere when he's already jumped bail once. But Dempsey won't suspect anyone's on to them. It shouldn't really interfere with the hostage exchange."

"Which we can no longer follow Braydon to," Danny said. "You think we could get him to tell us where he was going?"

"I doubt he's the chatty type," Jack said. "And he'd be more afraid of Dempsey than of us. I think our only option is to let this happen without him."

He picked up his notebook, opened his phone again, and tapped in a number. "Hello, this is Special Agent Jack Malone with the FBI. I'd like to speak to whoever is in charge please . . . . Chief, this is Jack Malone from FBI Missing Persons in New York. Thank you taking my call. Your officers just arrested a Robert Braydon. Our agents were following him. He's involved in a kidnapping. I'll need to know the names and as much information as possible about anyone he contacts."

Jack straightened. "How did that happen? . . . Okay, things happen, but there's a life at stake here . . . Yes, I am aware you didn't know that . . . Yeah, I'm sorry too." He drummed the fingers of his left hand on the table. "Look, for now don't let him call anyone or talk to any of your other prisoners. I'll get back to you."

He closed the phone with restraint this time. "She thinks Braydon may have overheard that the FBI was interested in him."

Vivian said, "If he gets that to Dempsey, the whole thing is off."

"No kidding. And who knows what would happen to Caldwell. Anybody got any ideas?"

Three days earlier, Everett Caldwell's wife had reported him missing. Jack's team had discovered that the accountant had been involved in a small way in money laundering for Fred Dempsey and Artie Ferguson's assortment of illegal activities. This week, Caldwell had been caught up in a conflict with a rival organization. He had been taken hostage by that group, to be traded for some documents that Dempsey and Ferguson were holding.

The FBI wasn't quite sure whether Dempsey and Ferguson wanted Caldwell back alive or just silenced. No one thought that Caldwell was a great prize, but it was their job to get him returned safely. Other agencies were working on shutting down Dempsey and Ferguson.

Fred Dempsey had been less than thrilled that Ferguson had designated his nephews Georgie and Harry to handle the exchange. Dempsey had dispatched his own man Braydon to hook up with the younger Fergusons, theoretically as an observer and consultant. Now Braydon was sitting in a cell.

Twenty minutes later, Jack strode back into the conference area. "Virginia is faxing a copy of a note they found on Braydon. There's an address in Brooklyn and a description of George and Harry Ferguson. And an instruction to text Dempsey that he got there okay, with a number."

"Since no one on that side seems to know where Caldwell is," Danny said. "that's probably where he's supposed to meet the Fergusons."

Elena tapped on an open folder. "You know, I have been reading Braydon's record. Look at this." She set the folder in front of Samantha and pointed. "If you were expecting a man of this description, and Martin walked in, what would you think?"

"Without a picture? Yeah, that could be him. Martin's an inch taller, and maybe ten pounds heavier, but . . . It even says Braydon has scars from a shooting."

Martin looked over Sam's shoulder. "And if Braydon doesn't know exactly what the Ferguson brothers look like, they probably wouldn't recognize him either."

"Hmm, it has possibilities," Jack said. "It should be simple enough, Martin. We'll get a courier to bring the original note. You can't wear a wire, but they'll be expecting you to be armed and to have a cell phone."

"We should have the courier bring Braydon's cell phone too," Martin said. "Can we get a Virginia driver's license with my picture that fast?"

"I would think so," Jack said. "You only need to hang out with them for two or three days and not do anything to make them suspicious. We'll keep working on finding Caldwell. It would be safer to get him out before the actual trade is scheduled. You shouldn't have any trouble, Martin, but keep your gun handy. I'll have the Virginia agents take Braydon into federal custody."

Vivian shook her head. "You can't keep him away from a phone or a lawyer for three days."

"I'll figure something."

* * * *

At first everything had gone smoothly. Georgie and Harry had accepted Martin's appearance as Braydon. Martin had texted his safe arrival to Dempsey.

The Ferguson brothers were another pair that each matched the same basic physical description - five foot eleven, lean, and blond. They were easy enough to tell apart in person. Harry's short hair was almost white. Grotesque tattoos of lizards, dragons, and big breasted women covered his muscular forearms. Georgie's ash blond hair was unkempt. He had bouts of restlessness and wore odd expressions when he paced around the living room furniture. Martin wasn't sure if Harry had much control over Georgie, or wanted to. It was easy to see why Dempsey was concerned about the pair's judgment.

Martin had deliberately lost almost two hundred dollars at poker the first afternoon. Harry and Georgie had appreciated that he had bought pizza and beer. It also let Martin keep a little control on the alcohol consumption.

At four a.m., when his new colleagues were asleep, Martin had quietly called Sam's cell phone. The Fergusons didn't know where Caldwell was, but Martin had picked up some tidbits about a securities firm.

Everything was fine, until the second evening, when Georgie had forced the struggling woman into the house. He was half drunk and his excited voice was pitched unnaturally high. "She was doing something to my car, something funny."

"Oh, come on." Martin said. "Funny how?"

"Just funny."

"Look," the woman said, "I was leaning on your damn car because I had something in my shoe. Let me go and I won't make any trouble for you. I have to be at an appointment."

Harry took the black velvet purse that hung from the woman's shoulder. He held up thick business cards inlaid with gold lettering 'Madeleine's Escorts'. In the lower right corner, large black script said 'Laurie'. "I'll bet you had an appointment."

Georgie laughed. "Only we're changing that appointment to here."

It was only a couple minutes later that Martin felt compelled to intervene. "Hey, hold on . . . "

Even if this didn't work, they'd probably think he was an asshole, but not wonder if he was a cop. He hoped. "Last night I sat in that bedroom for four hours while you partied with Tootsie and Fluffy, or whatever their names are. You drank my beer, ate my food, and told me to find a babe of my own. Well, I just found this one. At least I'll take her first. You said your girls would be back soon anyway."

He had to do this fast and decisively. It was a good thing their reaction times were slowed by the alcohol. Martin dug his fingers around Laurie's elbow and yanked her away from Harry. Before they could protest, he twisted her arm and pushed her towards a bedroom door. "Now, move it. Like the man said, it's not anything you haven't done before."

Georgie said, "Hey, Bob. I found . . ."

"Braydon," Harry said, "your gun."

"Oh, right." Maintaining a one-handed grip on her arm, Martin took his gun from its holster and dropped it on a table.

He shoved the woman through the door and on to the narrow bed. While he turned and locked the door, she crept off the bed and took up a defensive position along the wall.

"When I put you on the bed, you stay on the bed!" Martin was still facing the door. "I said, on the bed!" He flopped loudly on to the bed himself.

He looked at Laurie now and put a finger to his lips. He bounced a couple of times, then got up. As he glided toward her, she lifted a knee and braced her foot back against the wall.

"Ssh," he said. "I'm not going to touch you. But I need some help with sound effects. I could be in big trouble if they decide I'm jerking them around. In a moment, make some noise like I hurt you."

She studied his face but didn't drop her guard. He backed away.

Her eyes narrowed when he pulled his shirt tail out of his pants. Martin lifted his shirt, opened his right hand and slapped his ribcage resoundingly. He cued her with his left forefinger. She yelped.

"Good, good." He smiled with what he hoped was reassurance.

Martin bounced the bed and took a deep breath. "Yeoww! . . . Bitch!" He slapped his side again twice.

Still pressed against the wall, she managed a fairly realistic moan.

He sat still for a minute and listened. Nothing from the living room.

Laurie stepped to the head of the bed, remaining out of his reach, and picked up a pillow. She chewed on the edge of the pillowcase, then pulled on each side. The fabric separated with a very audible rip.

Martin gave her a cheerful thumbs up. He sat on the bed and used one foot on the floor to rock it back and forth. The bed creaked satisfactorily. Martin added occasional grunts.

He gestured toward the straight wooden chair near the bed. She eventually sat, primly upright, three feet away. She silently mouthed, 'Thank you'.

Her chisled cheekbones and wide mouth made her more attractive than classically pretty. There was a dimple on the left side of her mouth. Martin wasn't sure he'd ever seen a call-girl with a dimple before.

After several minutes, she said, "That hurt!"

He stopped moving the bed. "Damn it, hold still!"

His mouth was still dry. He reached under the bed to retrieve the water bottle that had rolled there the night before. There was still about a cup of water in it. He drank half and handed the rest to Laurie. He switched to using his other leg.

They sat apart, conspiring to make intermittent sounds, until finally Martin's leg cramped. "Twenty-seven minutes. That should do it."

He slid along the bed toward her. "Look, I'm sorry. I probably bruised your elbow."

"That's a small price. How often can I say thank you? But why?"

He considered. "I guess, it wasn't right, is all."

"Thank you again." There was that dimple.

"I'm Bob." He didn't bother to ask her real name. Laurie suited her well enough. "I'll try to get you out of here tonight. You might have to overpower me." He walked to the window. Vertical iron bars barricaded the outside. "Can you make some noise in case the window squeaks?"

"Give me a minute." Her eyes lost focus. She started to cry, softly and then with deeper sobs.

He couldn't tell how much was pretense. He eased the window up, inspected the bars and pulled the window back down. "Okay."

She kept crying.

"Okay," he said. "I'm done." Should he offer a shoulder? Who knew if she found the embrace of any man comforting? Probably shouldn't touch her again. He handed her his handkerchief.

When she stopped and raised her head, he grinned. "Good. That smeared your make-up nicely."

She smiled weakly. Almost a dimple.

"Only," he said, "unfortunately, the bars don't meet fire codes. They should open from the inside, but they're solid. I'll have to get you out through the front door when Heckle and Jeckle are asleep."

If, he thought, I think I can trust you by then to keep quiet.

The water hadn't kept his mouth damp for long. Adrenaline was causing a slightly unpleasant general feeling of prickly coldness.

"Laurie, I'm serious about keeping this romantic comedy going. We need more visual aids."

Martin unbuttoned his shirt. Her expression was curious but not alarmed.

She said, "Those are ugly scars."

"I was shot once, and I'd rather not have it happen again. So help me out. Scratch my neck, hard. I mean, hard. Draw blood."

She dropped her gaze to immaculately polished crimson nails.

"Now, no hesitation marks," he said. "If you had been on the bed over there, your hand should be at about this angle."

She curled a hand against his neck, closed her eyes, and pulled sharply downwards. She winced at his quick intake of breath.

"It just stung a little," he said. "It was mostly the anticipation." He touched his fingers to his neck. They came away with a few smears of blood. "Good job."

"You're really afraid of your friends?"

"They're purely business associates. Not very nice business associates."

"I might even call them malevolent business associates." There was a dimple on each side now.

He shook his head. "Not exactly malevolent. That would imply enjoying deliberate evil intent. I think they just don't care if they cause harm getting what they want. More like callous and self-indulgent."

"Okay. Callous. And noxious."

"Oh, definitely noxious."

He could hear the TV in the living room but no conversation. "Those bimbos should be here by now. Oh, sorry."

"No offense taken. If they're voluntarily socializing with those two, they probably are bimbos."

"Well, we don't want my associates to think it's about their turn. Let's astound them with the old guy's stamina. Ready for round two?"

"If the old guy is up to it."

He looked at the door. "Don't even think about biting me!"

She met his eyes and choked with an attack of giggles.

Martin leaned forward and pressed his hand against her soft lips. "Sorry. Nod when you're okay." He inhaled a strong scent of woodsy perfume and felt the pang of a purely visceral reaction. Not now, Fitzgerald.

He moved away as soon as she nodded. He said, "How about you make the bed creak for a while?"

He sat hunched in the chair, staring at the door. She was bright and funny and educated. Of all of her options, why had she chosen to make a living having sex with strange men?

He forced his shoulders to relax. His mouth was positively arid now.

Did she even want to give it up? There were programs.

Don't expect much, he told himself. Somewhere in her past or present, powerful forces had molded her current life. Abuse? Drugs? He hadn't seen any needle marks. Her nose wasn't distorted. He couldn't talk to her about it now. He had already behaved too much like a Boy Scout.

He swiveled to take over rocking the bed.

A crashing splintering of wood came from the living room. "Police! Put your hands in the air. Keep them up!" Many feet pounded.

"What the …?" Martin rolled off the chair and grabbed Laurie's arm. She was already diving to the floor. He pushed her shoulder, moving her so her feet were perpendicular to the wall. It made less of a target for any stray shots ripping through the thin construction. He slid partly over her, bracing himself and trying not to remember what bullets felt like.

"Listen," he said, "we're staying down here until we're sure no one's shooting. Then we surrender. No sudden moves. Do exactly what they say."

Why had Jack sent in the SWAT team? It had to be Jack. Who else? So they'd know Martin was one of them.

The shouting and running stopped. "And tell the cops I attacked you."

He sat up. "Officers! Officers! There are two of us in this bedroom. We have no weapons. We want to surrender!"

Strident orders issued from the outer room. "Only one of you – walk out slowly with your hands behind your head. When you get four feet into the room, get on your knees but keep your hands up. The other one wait until we tell you."

"You know," Laurie whispered, "some of those cops might be kind of friends of mine. And some cops really hate rapists."

"I'm in more danger from my buddies Laurel and Hardy out there than I am from the law."

"I really think I should go out first. I can tell them you didn't hurt me." She didn't wait for his consent.

"I'm coming out!" She raised her hands and walked through the bedroom door.

Long moments later, Martin heard, "Okay! The other one in the bedroom! Come out with your hands behind your head."

Four black-clad helmeted figures each held a gun pointed steadily at him. In a corner, another officer was watching a handcuffed Laurie.

"On your knees!" Martin sank down. He didn't resist when a hefty cop stepped behind him, pulled down one wrist at a time, and manacled them together.

Georgie and Harry were also cuffed, standing against the far wall, guarded by more men whose black jackets had large lettering saying either 'SWAT' or 'POLICE'.

The voice behind Martin said, "Ma'am, did he rape you?"

Laurie looked reluctantly at Martin. "Um, well, not . . . "

The cop didn't wait for her to finish. "That's blood." He tugged down Martin's collar, exposing the raw scratches on his neck. "Bastard."

Martin saw the kick coming. He should act like it really hurt.

A deep voice said, "Clint, no!"

In the first instant, Martin registered only the impact on his side that slammed him over on to the floor. Then his right ribcage exploded. Pain filled his consciousness. The urge to breathe finally forced him to inhale too deeply. Oh God.

He was dimly aware of hearing "Clint! Stop! We can write that off as resisting arrest, but not if you kick him again."

'Again.' He couldn't possibly handle 'again'. Could he find the air to whisper 'I'm FBI'?

He opened his eyes. One POLICE and one SWAT were holding the man named Clint, keeping him back. Martin let the breath trickle out. It was almost manageable. He focused on using his diaphragm more than his ribs for slow shallow breathing and stayed silent.

Guess Jack hadn't sent them. Who the hell had?

One of the black POLICE jackets crouched beside him. Martin croaked, "Can't breathe with my arms behind me."

Without much sympathy, the cop said, "Sit up slowly and I'll put the cuffs around front. There are three guns aimed at your heart."

The first burst of pain was lessening. Moving remained moderately horrible.

Laurie's eyes held apology.

Martin shook his head slightly. Don't say anything.

A young officer walked up to Clint. "Lieutenant, I'm sorry, but there's no sign of equipment for a meth lab here anywhere."

"Oh, wonderful. What moron screwed up that tip? Did you check the garage?"

"Everywhere. There's nothing."

"Well, we can book this low-life on sexual assault. And the other two could be accomplices."

* * * *

When the guards took Martin from the holding cell, he asked for his phone call. He dialed Jack's direct line.

He reported, "The Fergusons seem to believe the meth lab bust was just police incompetence. I don't know. It's quite a coincidence. Harry and Georgie aren't going to call anyone until morning. They don't want to piss off Uncle Artie any more by waking him up. They're not expecting things to happen until at least later tomorrow."

Jack said, "Sam and Elena ran down that securities company you told Sam about. It led to an address where we think they're holding Caldwell. We hope to have him out of there within a couple of hours."

"Good. You want me to keep being Braydon until then?"

"I think so, in case Caldwell isn't there. How about you? Two counts of sexual assault paired with one of resisting arrest? Who did you rape and how badly did you get roughed up 'resisting arrest'?"

"You think the resisting arrest charge is a cover-up? You're a cynic."

"The world has frequently disappointed me. So?"

"So I'm all right, a little sore. I'll tell you all about it later. They're taking me to the jail infirmary to be sure there are no broken ribs."

"Broken ribs? You want me to get you out of there now, to a hospital?"

"I'm breathing okay. The kick provided verisimilitude."

"Verisimilitude. Right. You must be functional. As soon as possible after we get Caldwell, I'll have you transferred to FBI custody. In the meantime, if you feel worse, or have any problems at all, tell someone who you are and get help."

* * * *

An hour later, Martin leaned back on his seat, decreasing the pressure on his diaphragm. He was alone in a bleak exam room in the jail infirmary. He sipped from a glass of water. His left wrist was handcuffed to the arm of the chair.

He had emphatically declined narcotics. The injected anti-inflammatory was kicking in as promised. The doctor wanted him to sit here a while longer so they could monitor his respiration periodically.

The adrenaline had finally subsided, leaving Martin sluggish. .

His mind wandered to Laurie. It hadn't seemed erotic at the time, but now he recalled her body underneath him. She's a hooker, he reminded himself again. A lot of men had felt that way. He'd have to find her later and see if she had any interest in switching to another line of work. Would she be more or less impressed with Martin Fitzgerald than Bob Braydon?

He wondered if he should make a fuss about the kick. Earlier in the holding cell, Harry had been indignant. "That was police brutality. You should sue them for a million bucks."

"Better you than me," Georgie had smirked. "Serves you right."

Martin had been lucky that the only part that was damaged was his ribcage. He knew what it was like to be outraged by a prisoner's brutal crimes. He'd let it go.

The door opened. The guard posted in the hallway stuck his head in. "Someone wants to talk to you."

Laurie stepped inside and closed the door.

What kind of dysfunctional outfit allowed a victim into a room with a handcuffed perp?

She was still wearing the wrinkled gold dress. She had cleaned off smudged makeup, but there were fresh tear stains on her cheeks. Had she been crying for him?

She spoke mechanically, with less solicitude than he expected. No dimples. "I was worried. You turned so gray. How are you?"

"Not too bad. Three cracked ribs but no lung damage. It helped a lot when they wrapped my chest. Plus the meds."

She had more tears on the way. "Tell me why. Why did you help me?"

What had changed? "Honestly? Because you looked so scared."

She stood five feet from him. "I liked you. I was so grateful. Whatever kind of criminal you are, I thought you were a gentleman. Of course, they'll drop today's charges, but I was going to talk to the prosecutor, to help with whatever other trouble you were in. Then they told me about your record."

Running his prints would have pulled up Braydon's sheet.

"What about the girls you raped? Weren't they scared too?"

He looked at the floor. Why did the scorn that clung to her every word make him so miserable? "That was a long time ago." He lifted his head and held her gaze. "Maybe . . . maybe I needed to atone for things I've done in the past."

"I . . . I can't . . . oh, damn you! I'll say something to the prosecutor. Goodbye, Bob." She turned and was gone.

* * * *

In a lounge down the hall, Lieutenant Clint Billings set a cup of coffee in front of Laurie and sat in the chair next to her. "How are you doing?"

"About fair. Braydon kept it from being a lot worse."

"I'm sorry it took so long to find you," he said. "We knew you'd disappeared somewhere on that block. We didn't know where until a dog tracked you to the house. The meth lab story was the best we could do at the spur of the moment."

"Blast that Braydon anyway."

"Laurie, let it go. Thank God he picked now to reform. At least you tipped off Mike that no one should hurt him. I wish I hadn't gotten in that kick before Mike stopped me. I thought he'd . . ."

"Yeah, I know. Braydon didn't deserve that, but I guess he's okay. I was afraid of your temper. I didn't want him to be killed 'trying to escape' on the way to the station." Detective Laurie Evans stirred her coffee. "Anyway, he'll be going away for a long time on that federal warrant."


End file.
